


Kith

by acme146



Series: Fading Scars [25]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore's Army, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hogwarts during Deathly Hallows, Lavender's Pretties, Multi, Past Sexual Abuse, canonical character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: Characters in the Harry Potter universe who are not part of the immediate 'Fading Scars' family, but are still near to our hearts.Companion to Kin.





	1. Lavender's Pretties (Lavender Brown)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this collection! Here be all the people who are not in Kin--could be living, could be dead. Feel free to suggest people!
> 
> This first chapter has very dark moments, with sexual violence more on an 'M' level, though non-graphic. This won't be the norm for this series, but I wanted to tell this story.

Lavender loved being pretty when she was little.

She took a lot of joy in finding the best dress, the best shoes, the best makeup. She would beg her mother to let her try on makeup, and spent hours playing dress-up among the trunks in her family’s attic.

That was part of why she didn’t get along with Hermione Granger. She didn’t care about being pretty, and would always ignore Lavender and Parvati’s invitations to join in on their spa days. Eventually they stopped inviting her.

“If she wants to feel superior because she doesn’t like what we like, that’s her problem,” Parvati sniffed.

Years later, all three would feel regret—Hermione, because the girls who cared about makeup at her old school were mean to her so she didn’t want to give these new ones a chance—and Lavender and Parvati, because they realized they were doing the exact same thing to Hermione.

Then Voldemort came back, and Lavender hated herself for doubting Harry at first. But Professor Trelawney saw such good things in the future for her and Parvati and even Hogwarts, so Voldemort couldn’t be spoiling that, could he?

But even though it was true and Death Eater activity started getting horrible and her parents wanted to pull her out of school, Lavender still took joy in feeling pretty. And Ron Weasley wanted to go out with her— _Ron Weasley!_ Who was a hero and quite a good kisser and she was happy, and maybe things would be alright.

Then Dumbledore died, Snape took over as Headmaster, and Lavender quickly learned that being pretty was both a curse and a weapon.

The children of Death Eaters were the Prefects, and Draco Malfoy was Head Boy. They determined who got punished and who got rewarded for everything; there were no more points.

They even decided who got to be the Rewards.

And Lavender, pretty, still so pretty even though she was so worried, with her pure blood and her experience, was a Reward for the very best.

Snape refused to allow rape, but there were places in the castle where even he didn’t see. So he cast charms on the girl and boy Rewards, so that if anyone touched them without their consent, he would know immediately.

So Lavender’s Reward sessions usually involved standing, dancing, letting people talk to her, having people touch themselves in front of her. It was horrible and degrading, and no amount of showering could make it better. She begged Professor Snape to let the little ones alone; some of the Reward girls were only twelve, for Merlin’s sake. Snape took away the youngest ones, but he didn’t stop the Rewards.

No one would ever know if he could only do so much, if he sacrificed a few for the good of the many. He took that secret to his grave.

So Lavender was on her own, and she decided to make the best of it.

The next time she was a Reward, she said something new.

“You can touch, if you like.”

Before Christmas came Lavender was the only sexual reward anyone wanted, because she _consented._ You couldn’t hurt her—that was her one rule. But other than that, she would do whatever you wanted.

Lavender became The Reward.

Professor McGonagall cottoned on to what she was doing early, and she tried to talk her out of it, but Lavender just stared at her in silence. “I’m pretty,” she said. “I can take it.”

And McGonagall understood, and let her cry and cried herself. “I can get you out of here. I can try…”

“No. The little ones need you. I’ll be alright.”

McGonagall smuggled her pretty clothes, and makeup, and salves and Dreamless sleep potions, and Lavender coped. She discovered that being pretty was a type of armour; all anyone would talk about was her body, they didn’t care who she was. So she floated away, and kept her mind busy, thinking, thinking, thinking…

When the word got out about the Room of Requirement, and Neville disappeared, Lavender knew what she had to do. She distracted the Prefects as best as she could while the others in the D.A. smuggled out the children, she made sure the Room had bathrooms, had room for everyone…

One night she almost got caught.

When the Prefect was finished with her, the door opened, and Draco Malfoy came in. He snarled at the Prefect about the rules, but the Prefect defended himself.

“The whore said it was alright!”

Draco sent him out and gave Lavender something to cover herself. He’d never come to her, not once.

“Did you really consent?” Draco asked. “Really and truly?”

“Why do you care?”

“People aren’t rewards. They shouldn’t be.”

Lavender was struck by the truth in his voice. “It’s alright,” she said shakily. “Believe me, I chose this.” _I have a plan._

Draco just nodded. “If you want it to stop, I can help.”

The same offer as McGonagall, and it was March now and people were disappearing, being tortured, being killed, and Lavender was getting tired of being pretty.

But she had to be brave, because if she stopped, who would be the Reward?

“I can’t,” she answered.

Draco nodded. He left her then. Lavender didn’t sleep that night, worried that he would tell Snape, but nothing happened. The only thing that changed was the amount of times she ‘Rewarded’ someone in a week.

She spent any free nights in the Room of Requirement, helping to plan, to save. Some of the others looked at her differently, but Lavender didn’t care. She’d always been so confused by her Sorting into Gryffindor. She wasn’t really that brave. But now her pretty had become a suit of armor, her beauty a weapon. She had to be strong enough to continue.

And then the Battle of Hogwarts happened, and for the first time in ages Lavender could _fight_ , really fight for the first time, shooting off curses and trying to protect the young ones (when did the sixteen year old ones become young, she was eighteen, only eighteen) and then she caught a Stunning Spell on the edge of her Shield Charm, so potent that it sent her flying over the balcony.

The last thing she saw before everything went black was a man moving like a wolf, leaping towards her.

   She woke up in the Hospital Wing, the Battle over. Parvati was sitting by her bed, crying as she held her hand. The blows of pain as she heard the names of the dead hit her chest like a sledgehammer, but at last, it was over.  

Lavender was well enough to stand for the first round of funerals, and when they were over, they all went back to Hogwarts. Just as they had once so long ago, the tables were Vanished in the Great Hall after dinner, and sleeping bags and cushions were spread out over the ground. People were huddling in groups unrelated to House, just hanging on to the other survivors.

Before they went to sleep though, a fifth-year Ravenclaw that Lavender vaguely recognized spat in her face.

Parvati had her in a headlock in a second, and Hermione had her wand trained on the spitter.

“How dare you?” Neville shouted.

“She’s a filthy Death Eater whore!” The Ravenclaw snarled. “She fucked them, she was nice to them, you all know it!”

Lavender stood up, shaky on her feet still. The fall had broken dozens of bones, and even Madam Pomfrey could only heal so fast. As for her arms and torso, they were bound with bandages from Fenrir Grayback’s attack. “She’s right,” she said, as loudly as she could.

The Great Hall was quiet.

“They chose me to be a Reward for the Death Eater’s children,” Lavender said. “And I went along with it, so they wouldn’t choose somebody else prettier. Or younger, or kinder, or brighter. I made myself the best lay you could ever have, and they fell at my feet. I could have fought and lost my life; or I could have stayed pretty, and saved others from the same fate. I chose to play the whore.”

And standing there in front of everyone, Lavender felt more naked than she ever had.

But then Hermione Granger hugged her, whispered _Lavender you brave, beautiful girl,_ and she broke down into tears.

The next day Lavender’s bandages were removed, and the damage was shown. Deep scars went up and down her arms, and her torso had a few bites marks.

“It wasn’t full moon,” Madam Pomfrey said quickly. “So you won’t be a werewolf. But there’s only so much I can do, and…”

Lavender got the message. She wasn’t pretty anymore. At least she’d kept her face.

Parvati was ready to start fighting again, to work and heal others and be there. Lavender couldn’t. She packed her bags, promised to write when she could, and ran for a beautiful place.

She found it in Wales, one of the most remote areas of that wild country. She took long walks and cried and drank Dreamless Sleep until she ran out and then stayed awake for three days, staring at the moon. The good part about her scars was that her body didn’t match her nightmares, when she could avoid them no longer. Only her legs were still the same, and even they seemed thinner, frailer than before.

When a month had gone by, Lavender realized she hadn’t written to anyone yet—not her parents, not Parvati, not anyone. She sent off two quick letters, telling them where she was, that she was safe, but she needed quiet.

She needed to be alone.

Gradually Lavender became comfortable with her own skin again.  She took baths instead of showers, she wore dresses without sleeves, and she started to wear makeup. But there was only so much it could do to make her feel better.

One day she had a visitor, one she never would have expected. It was Apolline Delacour, Fleur’s mother.

“Hello, Lavender.”

“Hello,” Lavender said, a bit dazed. “How did you find me?”

“My daughter has begun work with your friend Parvati. She told me about what you did during the war.”

Lavender swallowed. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to offer you support, if I could. You see, during the time of Grindelwald’s rise to power, there was a Muggle war at the same time. Nowhere was safe in France. My mother had three of us, and my father was dead, killed in the first battle. So she used her body to protect us, trading pleasure for information. She saved many lives.”

A surge of relief. She wasn’t the first.  

“How is your mother?”

“She passed a few years ago,” Apolline replied. “But to her dying day, she was proud of what she had done. As you should, Lavender. You understood your strengths, and you accepted the cost of using them.”

   Lavender’s eyes pricked with tears. “I don’t know if I—if I have accepted all the costs. I didn’t know how I would feel now.”

“And how do you feel now?” Apolline asked.

“I want to feel pretty again,” Lavender sobbed. And that wasn’t exactly what she meant—she wanted to feel free and happy, to sleep well and never eat rare steak again, but in the end, all of that could happen when she felt pretty again.

But Apolline understood.

She stayed with Lavender for three weeks, helped her cook, gave her creams and powders and potions to regain her strength and her skin, helping the scars fade more and more. They were still there when Lavender looked in the mirror, but they looked like part of the past.

And that’s what they were.

Apolline’s husband came after the first week, and Lavender found herself laughing, really laughing again. Francois adored the countryside, and he and Lavender went on long walks, looking for the most beautiful places. Gabrielle came to visit as well, and she and Lavender played dress-up and talked about Divination. Gabrielle was a true Seer, and when she read Lavender’s palm she smiled. “I think things are going to get better for you,” she said. “The hardest part is over.”

When the couple left, Apolline left all of her creams and powders and potions. Lavender protested, but she wouldn’t listen. “They belong to you now. Use them well.”

That first night alone, Lavender didn’t sleep. But this time it wasn’t because of nightmares. Instead, she spent the long hours writing, scratching things out, writing again.

The next day, her owl Binky flew back to England, with a plan for her new job.

Parvati’s shelter was starting to take off, and she couldn’t come to Wales. Susan Bones could, and she and Apolline helped Lavender start her work. They made creams and powders and potions, adjusting ingredients until they had gentle makeup that anyone could wear, makeup that showed off beauty and hid scars.

It was a start, and Lavender packed huge boxes to send to Parvati’s shelter, but there was more she wanted to do. Not a shelter; that was good and important,  but that wasn’t Lavender’s way. She wanted to fight, to help women be brave with their beauty.

From then on, people whispered about the cottage in Wales. If you went there looking for beauty products—Lavender’s Pretties—you would find them. You would find comfortable, healthy makeup that made you feel special. You could also find products that treated dry skin, scars, old injuries and even minor ailments (those were Susan’s inventions).

But if you climbed to the cottage and you needed help, to find tools to deal with a threat, you would find that there too. In fact, Muggle or witch, you would find security, advice, and women who were good with their wands.

Lavender and Susan were a close team, working together to find the best places to hide children, the best curses to fight monsters, the best ways to help women celebrate their pretty. Lavender kept the shelves stocked and her ears open, directing her team to areas of trouble. Susan communicated with Muggle and Wizard law enforcement and planned new training sessions. They split the duties of dealing with clients and making their bed. 

And when Hermione Granger, who wasn’t quite sure what to do to help her neighbour, knocked on their door, Lavender and Susan went to the Mills house and knocked on the door.

When Rhonda Mills opened the door, Lavender smiled brightly.

“Hello! We’re here to help you feel pretty.”


	2. House Pride (Ernie Macmillan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Ernie's seventh Hogwarts train ride (well, thirteenth, but it was the seventh going to Hogwarts), he makes a promise to be the best Hufflepuff he can be. It's the best way to protect the others.  
> He never dreamed it would become his saving grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For annegirlblythe, who asked a long time ago. I hope I did you justice, dear!

Ernie was satisfied with being a Hufflepuff. He loved his classmates, he’s proud of how hard he works and he is satisfied that this is where he belongs. Perhaps he was pompous (no, he _was_ pompous) but he’s proud of himself. His parents were so disappointed when he didn’t make Gryffindor, but Ernie knew he was right to be in Hufflepuff. And there was nothing wrong with that, and he was a good example of the best kind of Hufflepuff.

He had to be, because Cedric Diggory, his Prefect, his mentor in the Badgerinas, was dead being a great Hufflepuff. And Ernie mourned him, and was determined to be just as good, if not better, because Cedric needed a legacy.

Then the war happened, and suddenly being a Hufflepuff wasn’t satisfying. It was vital to survival.

Ernie was pureblood back nine generations, so he wasn’t frightened of the Death Eaters. He was frightened for his friends, all the people in his year who weren’t coming back, and all of the people who were coming back, all the students who were going to suffer.

Ernie’s memory for people was perfect. He remembered every single person he’s ever met, and he did his best to find out about people. Not to hurt them—no, he keeps every secret he’s ever seen, unless someone’s life is in danger. But he remembered people’s habits, their favourite food and colours, their strengths and weaknesses. His favourite thing to do was give people little treats, help to brighten their day just a little bit.

That memory was his biggest weapon in his seventh year.

During the day, he played the perfect, obedient Prefect. He ‘yes sir’d’ and ‘yes ma’am’d’ properly, he kept his head down, and he played up his pomposity as much as he could.

But when he wasn’t in class, he was following the plan they made on the train.

The Death Eaters hadn’t gotten on the train right away, and everyone in Dumbledore’s Army who was present on the train (and it hurt to see the people who weren’t there, who couldn’t be there) piled into one compartment. Neville Longbottom’s face was more tense and frightened than Ernie had ever seen him, but he was firm.

“We’ve got no idea what we’re walking into, but it won’t be good. We have a choice to make; do we resist, or do we stay quiet?” Neville looked around. “I’m not going to judge anyone. This is going to be hard.”

A couple people left—Zacharias Smith was the first, and Michael Corner followed him. But the rest stayed, looking at Neville.

“What do you want us to do?” Ernie asked.

Neville relaxed just a bit. “I don’t know.”

So they talked together, trying to figure out what they could do, what would work to protect the students who didn’t know how to fight.

Finally Luna Lovegood raised her hand. “They’re so concerned with labels, you know. Who is pureblood, who isn’t, what family you belong to…what house you’re in. We already know the Slytherins will be safe because they assume anyone in that house thinks like them. Why don’t we use that against them?”

It was a brilliant idea. The Gryffindors would be brash and proud, the Ravenclaws would bury their noses in books, the Hufflepuffs would be quiet and friendly, a little bit dim.

But the members of the D.A. would do more.

Later, Ernie would laugh at their plans. They were so intent on protecting the other students with their exaggerated House identities…they never noticed that their roles were also like their House.

Neville, Ginny, Lavender and Parvati went on the offensive. It made sense—they were in Harry’s year, in Harry’s house, they would be under the most suspicion anyways. Meanwhile Terry and Luna decided to barricade the library as best they could, to make it safe for students seeking sanctuary. They would also tutor any student who needed it; it was Terry’s guess (and he was right) that bad grades would mean punishment.

And Ernie, Hannah, and Justin were going to give everyone a safe place. The Hufflepuff common room would be open to everyone who needed it (even Slytherins). They could work with the House Elves, Dobby especially, to make sure everyone stayed fed. Hannah would work with Madam Pomfrey under the guise of Healer training, and smuggle potions for anyone who needed them.

“It’s a question of survival,” Ernie said. “We have to make sure that everyone lives through this year. We’re not out there fighting, so we have to be here to make sure there’ll be something left of Hogwarts after the war.”

The plans were made by the time they pulled into Hogsmeade station. Hagrid was there to greet the first years, and Ernie’s heart sank as he watched the half-giant twitching his umbrella nervously.

Snape was with him.

The announcements at dinner changed none of their plans. It was horrible to think that Muggle Studies was being taught by a Carrow, but Slughorn and McGonagall and Sprout and Flitwick were still there. Four teachers, four Houses, four chances to make this year bearable.

It was a horrible year. Every day in the Great Hall Amycus Carrow read out the list of the dead and the missing, calling students out by name if one of their relatives were mentioned. No one was allowed to leave; anyone who tried got the Cruciatus Curse.

The lessons were terrible in their helplessness. Oh, the teachers tried, and they tried hard. But there was only so much they could do, facing their students who had bruises and scrapes and walked with pain in every joint from torture, all the panic and fear. How could anyone teach the finer points of Transfiguration or Charms? How could anyone care?

The teachers did help, though. Slughorn slipped students extra healing ingredients and taught them all to make simple potions to help with sleep, grief, and pain. McGonagall gave detentions out like candy, keeping everyone under her eye as much as possible and Snape only tried to stop her once. Sprout grew beautiful flowers that healed the eye as much as the heart, and every charm Flitwick recited helped with little things—blotting tear-streaked faces, cleaning uniforms, repairing possessions broken by the Carrows’ random searches.

Little acts of rebellion, but it kept some hope alive.

Ernie hoped he was helping, with what little he could do. He found every single hiding place in the Hufflepuff quarters and created new ones, so that everyone could stay there. He remembered whose families had suffered and gave them a place to react without anyone seeing, with comfort afterwards (what little could be given). He even listened to Slughorn, who was terrified about some of his students who’d sorted themselves into Slytherin for safety, but were being called ‘traitors’. So Ernie let them push him around during the day, and hugged them tight at night, when they sobbed out apologies, assuring them that he wasn’t angry.

He spent Thursday and Friday nights in the library with Terry and Luna, and later just Terry, tutoring the kids. Ernie had never taught before; he’d always been an independent learner. But helping a trembling third year turn a beetle into a button for the first time awakened something inside him. This was something he could do.

He poured his efforts into those tutoring sessions, walking the kids through the secret passages when they were done. At first, most of the kids still sat with Terry, and Ernie swallowed his hurt. What was he doing wrong?

Terry clued him in. The Ravenclaw’s stress was clearly showing on his face. Too many people in his house were delighted by the dwindling competition for academic honours.

“You’re being too fucking pompous with them, Ernie. You’re bloody well better than that.”

Ernie wasn’t sure what shocked him more: Terry’s swearing, or the truth in his words. He’d always accepted himself, faults and all. He never imagined that he could actually improve his personality.

If he was a Muggle, or had access to Muggle sources, he would have looked for self-help books. It was the middle of wartime and he was running a very delicate operation to protect the students he could.

Ernie made do.

He started with listening to himself speak, recording it carefully. He soon saw what Terry meant; the way he never asked questions with the proper inflection, the way he started conversations talking about himself, the way he raised and lowered his voice depending on the other person’s answers. Taking careful notes, he started to practice. Terry helped him by giving hands on experience in the library. Every kid who smiled at him, who kept asking questions…Ernie counted that as a victory.

Next, he examined what he knew, and what he didn’t know. They were both rather long lists, and Ernie was particularly disheartened by the first.

“How can I help teach anyone if I don’t know what I think I know?” he asked Terry with despair (he had not stopped being dramatic, there were _limits)_.

“Learn with them,” Terry suggested.

So Ernie started pulling books off the shelves during the nightly tutoring sessions. Under Madam Pince’s watchful eye (though not as watchful as she once was, she was more concerned with watching for Death Eaters than for people eating), he started reading aloud, asking questions, and guiding the kids to the answer.

The day Terry told him “you’re a good teacher” was the happiest day of Ernie’s life.

Well, it was the happiest until he was walking Terry back to the Ravenclaw Tower, and Terry pinned him against the wall and kissed him for all he was worth. Ernie was so stunned he didn’t kiss back, and Terry pulled away immediately.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I should have asked, I just—”

“I…” Ernie took a deep breath. _Don’t be pompous._ “So I suppose you like me, then? I…I think I like you, I’ve never really liked anyone before.” Not boys or girls, not ever. But Terry…Terry was amazing and wonderful and believed in him, and that kiss was pretty terrific. “Can I kiss you properly?”

They had a few proper kisses that night, and when they tutored they sat at a big table together, holding hands.

It was dangerous, of course. Ernie knew (because he knew things about the Death Eaters too) that there were several Death Eaters with male lovers. That wasn’t what he was afraid of.

No, he was afraid because Terry was a halfblood, which was close to bad, and Luna didn’t come back from break and more people were disappearing, they couldn’t save everyone, and Ernie didn’t want Terry to be next.

So they kept it quiet, quiet until the Battle of Hogwarts. Ernie was busy with the wounded, helping Hannah and Cho grab injured people and pull them into empty classrooms, alcoves, passages, everything. But he saw Terry fighting against a horde of spiders, and for the first time in ages, Ernie stopped being passive, stopped just sheltering. He attacked.

Later in their lives, Terry would pull up a video of a honey badger to explain what Ernie did then. Ernie would have protested, but he was aware it was true. He’d gone absolutely mental, dispatching spiders with not regard for his own safety, and taking down seven Death Eaters in the process.

He only stopped when the Death Eaters started to withdraw to some horrible call.

By that point Justin was shaking because he’d killed Dolohov, and Hannah was crying because a thirteen year old girl had died in her arms, and there were bodies everywhere.

Ernie snapped back to himself. The whys and hows of the retreat weren’t important—he barely heard Voldemort’s call for Harry to surrender. It didn’t matter. They were still in trouble, still in crisis mode. And people needed to be safe.

In the hour, Ernie, Terry, Hannah, and Justin managed to put wounded people in several different classrooms. Ernie put every protective charm he knew while Hannah and Justin raced to the Hospital Wing and back, carrying supplies in their arms. Terry took names and went down to the Great Hall. He came back with more names, some dead, some wounded, some alive.

Ernie felt the names hit him like physical blows, but there was no time for the hurt. He had to make sure that these people weren’t going to die, and they were going to be safe no matter what happened.

He was heading down carefully with Terry to start in the Great Hall, right at the end of the hour. They’d almost made it when they heard McGonagall scream.

“No!”

Ron and Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger started screaming too. And Ernie’s knees buckled, because it _couldn’t_ be true. He and Harry weren’t precisely friends, never had been, but Ernie liked him a lot. And if he was dead it wasn’t _over,_ and he would graduate and leave the school, and all of his _kids_ would be left behind to suffer, and they shouldn’t have to protect themselves.

Terry caught him. “We’ll fight,” he whispered. “Ernie, we can still fight.”

And Ernie stood up, because Terry was here and that had to make it okay.

And then Neville—glorious, wonderful Neville, who Ernie had tried very hard to like once upon a time but never managed it—started shouting, and there was a roar of people like Ernie had never heard, and suddenly there was fighting in the Entrance Hall.

He lost track of Terry for several heart-stopping minutes as he tried to get to the Great Hall—if there was more fighting the wounded and the dead needed to be protected—

And then Harry was there—there, alive! And he and Voldemort were circling each other, and Harry was saying something about Horcruxes? Ernie had never heard of them.

And just as Terry found him in the throng and grabbed his hand, Harry and Voldemort cast spells at the same time, the green light reflected back, and Voldemort crumpled to the ground.

In that moment of silence, Ernie felt something rising in him, something that he hadn’t done all year.

The crowd burst into joy and relief, and Ernie burst into tears.

He didn’t need to protect any more. He could cling to Terry and kiss him, and look for Hannah and Justin and find all the rest of the D.A. and congratulate Harry and realize that the battle was _over._

Of course the moment wore off, and Ernie was back on duty. The remaining Death Eaters were put in the dungeons, which was all well and good, but there were other wounded people, and the dead had funerals to plan, and there were letters to send about those dead and wounded, because Ernie had lived a year with no information at all about the world outside except through the Death Eaters, and no one who lay dead in the Great Hall was going un-mourned or unnoticed.

Counting the Hufflepuff dead was agony, especially seeing how many people weren’t of age, who’d snuck back to fight. Going back up to the classrooms where they’d hidden the wounded, only to find one of them dead (poisoned by Bellatrix Lestrange’s dagger, there was nothing they could have done), was awful. But Ernie kept calm and created stretchers and walked people up to the Hospital Wing with Hannah and Justin. Terry, Luna and Cho were off to do a full head count and try to repair the worst of the damage to the castle, and Neville, Ginny, Seamus and Dean were doing a walk through of the castle aided by a battered piece of parchment to find any hiding enemies, and any more wounded or dead.

So really, they were ending the Death Eater occupation the same way they started: playing to their House’s strengths, and doing the work of adults.

Ernie didn’t want to feel like a grownup anymore. He didn’t want to feel like a Hufflepuff either. He just wanted to stand down.

It was Madam Pomfrey who shoved a vial of Dreamless Sleeping potion at him, told him to drink the lot, and that she had things well in hand.

That was the first time all year that Ernie could trust an adult.

He drank it immediately.

Ernie woke up that evening with Terry curled into his side and his parents by his bed. Ernie blinked hard, sure it was an illusion. His parents were both…alive? How many could say that in the D.A.?

“We’re so proud of you, Ernie,” his mother said. Then she burst into tears.

His father was the first to hug him. “My boy’s all grown up now,” he whispered. “And what a brilliant man you are.”

Ernie went back to sleep soon after, and he stayed in bed for most of the next day. It wasn’t entirely by choice—every time he tried to get up, either Terry or Madam Pomfrey would stop him.

“You’ve done plenty,” Madam Pomfrey said sternly. “I know what you’ve done—you kept my Wing as empty as you could. You can spend some time in it without worrying.”

Around three o’clock Harry came in with Ron and Hermione at his sides. It was startling to see the three of them again in school, like nothing had happened. But Hermione’s face was drawn, Ron’s eyes were as red as his hair, and Harry had a strange, distant look in his eye.

Everything had happened.

Harry still had the same smile though, the smile of someone who isn’t quite used to happiness but likes the feeling. He sat on Ernie’s bed and said simply, “you’ve done amazing, Ernie.”

For some reason that was the greatest praise Ernie could have received.

The next few days were hard; a whirl of funerals and rebuilding and healing, trying to heal. Ernie left the Hospital Wing, ignoring any protests, and submerged himself into the post-crisis world. He helped returning students get back to their dorms, made lists of the missing and found time to make tea. A veritable army of House Elves helped with that, and they assured Ernie that they didn’t mind helping at all.

“It’s our home!” squeaked one. “Winky will make biscuits.”

And she did, mountains upon mountains.

Then that week was over, and classes were cancelled. Most students went home, but Ernie decided to stay. There were people to memorialize from every single House, there would be trauma and difficulties, and he had to make sure that next year’s students were ready to face that.

He spent a lot of that summer with Neville Longbottom and Hannah (and thank _Merlin_ those two were together at last), having tea and biscuits by the Great Lake. Terry came and visited every few days; he went to stay at home, and Ernie didn’t blame him, he just wrote him reams of letters. They ate with the teachers—all of them stayed over the summer to help with repairs—and spent some nights in the grounds, lying and looking at the stars. It was a very sunny summer.

Then one day in late June Neville walked in with his eyes as big as saucers.

“What is it?” Hannah asked immediately.

“Professor Sprout wants me to teach Herbology next year,” Neville stuttered. “She’s going to retire.”

“You’ll do great,” Ernie said immediately. He would miss Sprout, she was a brilliant Head of House, but it did make sense. The Herbology teacher and the Hufflepuff Head of House both traditionally started very young, and stayed until they had chosen their successor. Really, Sprout had been teaching much longer than anyone expected.

Ernie probably should have remembered that the same afternoon, when McGonagall found him.

“I’ve decided to be Headmistress,” she told him. “I’m perfectly capable of doing the job, and I want to make sure that the students still see a familiar face.”

“Are other teachers leaving?” Ernie asked, surprised.

“Yes. Professor Vector had to leave, and we’ll…we’ll need to find another Muggle Studies teacher. And a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. But more immediately, we need a Head of House for Hufflepuff, and a Transfiguration teacher.”

“I agree,” Ernie said. “I think Hannah would be a good choice, but she wants to study to be a Healer. Maybe Justin?”

Professor McGonagall stared at him for a long moment.

Finally it clicked.

“You mean—me?” Ernie shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Professor.”

“Why not?” Sprout came into the room. “I’ve chosen you for a reason, Mr. Macmillan. And I think you will do a splendid job with Transfiguration.”

“But…I’m not a teacher.”

“The several dozen students who have told me otherwise are lying, then?” Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “Ernie, you might be keeping quiet about everything you did for this school and its students during the last year, but the people you helped haven’t.”

Ernie tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “There’s no way I could have been your first choice,” he told Sprout, unwilling to address what McGonagall said. “I’ve been so pompous and I—I’m not the best Hufflepuff—”

“You weren’t my first choice,” Sprout agreed. “You’ve been my only choice. I saw potential in you from when you were just a wee seed. Every year you’ve grown up a little bit more Ernie, and when things are bad you’ve stood up for everyone, not just your House. That’s exactly what Helga wanted. The students who were here this year trust you implicitly, and so do I.”

“You really think I can do this?” Ernie said at last. “Because I don’t know if I can.”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “Ernest Macmillan, believe me when I say that neither of us want you to grow up any more than you’ve had to already. You’re still a boy, and you deserve some rest, not more work.”

“But on the other hand,” Sprout continued, “maybe this is your good work.”

Hufflepuffs were known as hard workers, but some people went to extremes with it; working on projects until they fainted from exhaustion or hunger. Every year, Sprout gathered the whole House together and gave everyone a speech.

“Just because we know how to work hard doesn’t mean that our work is always good. All work takes effort, but some work can hurt your body, some can hurt your mind, and some can hurt your heart. You need to find your good work, the work that will carry you through life and feel satisfying; almost like it isn’t work at all. Please don’t destroy yourselves with bad work before you find your good work.”

It was always a good reminder for the older ones, and Ernie always tried harder in the first few months to be easier on himself. But by November he was always too tired and too caffeinated.

Now that he thought about it, this was the first year that he’d ever allowed himself to sleep when he was tired.

Ernie swallowed hard. “I’ll do it.”

Transfiguration was Ernie’s favourite subject, and after he read through McGonagall’s lesson plans he was tentatively ready to start planning his own. He and Neville worked together, finding ways to join their lesson plans so they could cover similar areas at the same time. Hagrid joined them, and so did Professor Flitwick.

September first was terrifying, but it brought Terry back; he’d done some training in building restoration, and would be working at Hogwarts. It also brought back many of the faces from last year (though too many were missing). Ernie’s first class was a blur in his mind, but the second day was easier, with a full night sleeping with Terry.

It was hard, walking down the same halls he’d crept along last year, guiding terrified kids to saferooms, eating in the Great Hall where the wounded and the dead had laid. There were new ghosts in the castle that were too young to be there—one of them, Abigail Queen, came and sat in his seventh year class. Hogwarts was badly wounded, and so was Ernie; so were all the survivors.

But by November, by the time the first Quidditch game of the season began, there was some light in the hallways. Terry had made progress with some of the worst damage, Ernie hadn’t fallen back into being ‘pompous’ or had a night terror in three weeks, and people were starting to laugh again.

In time, Ernie and Terry got married and adopted two children; one who was eight and named herself Tina the first time they gave her a dress, and one little boy with no name at first, at two years old. They named him Cedric.

Ernie found his good work, and vowed to stay a teacher until he died.

And that’s precisely what happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the Fading Scars universe! It's been quite a while, and no, this isn't Tearing, not yet. You need more context, poppets, so the next 54 days will have plenty of that across these oneshot series.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	3. Witness (Lee Jordan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the sidelines isn't as calm as people think it is. Someone has to tell the stories in war and peace.

Lee was always content with watching life. 

He was a participant only when called upon. The rest of the time he spent highlighting other people—commenting on Quidditch games, doing advertising for the Weasley twins, talking up the D.A. to people in his year, who weren’t sure how they felt about being taught by a younger student…

He never expected his commentary to become quite so…participatory, but that was war for you. 

Potterwatch started on a whim one night. Angelina was staying at his flat that night, crying her eyes out about an attack on a Muggle family. The regular news channel came on, and Lee’s blood boiled when the announcer said that the family had attacked the Death Eaters with guns, forcing them to kill them all. 

That drove Lee to learn (in the space of twenty-four hours) how to make a radio channel, how to make it secure, and how to spread the word about it so quietly that Death Eaters were never told. 

The secrecy worked because the Death Eaters never knew it existed. Word about Potterwatch passed in whispers and mutterings late at night, only to trusted people. Lee would only learn after the war that news about the station had in fact been passed to Voldemort sympathizers, but they stayed quiet, because even admitting they’d heard it at all was too risky. 

It was hard work, running a radio show with an ever-dwindling support staff. It killed him every time someone didn’t show up, or a Patronus arrived with a last gasp of breath, a few words of news. And every piece of news was horrible—deaths, the missing, the attacks, the nonsense…

Somehow, Lee dug deep, found the funny, and kept hoping, putting his faith in three kids who weren’t on the news yet. He kept a record of every single name of the dead, and every time he went to sleep he would say them, over and over again. And when he woke up in the morning, he said the name of every person who was still alive, every survival story, every hero who’d stood up. On bad days, someone would appear on both lists. 

When it came to measuring the good that Potterwatch did, Lee had no idea. It was hard to measure something people couldn’t talk about. Very few people knew who ‘River’ was, even, and those who did were often in too much danger themselves to say hello. But Lee put on a show every chance he could, changing locations, tracking raids, making sure he had light and a roof. That was all he needed to do the show, and shout out into the void, bringing the proper news to those who needed to hear it, trying to make someone smile, feel a little bit of hope.  

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Lee stayed around to bury his best friend. He whispered “good bye Rapier,” put a small stuffed weasel in the coffin, and ran away. He hid in the lake, floating in the cool water. He saw the merpeople come to the surface for a moment, watching him. 

When he did go into the castle, Ron Weasley grabbed hold of him and pulled him to the front of the Great Hall. Too numb to protest, Lee stood dumbfounded as Ron said, “Oi, everyone! This is River!” 

Lee would never forget the moment of deep silence. And he would never forget the sound that came next—part tears, part laughter, part scream, part sob—that rose from the crowd. 

And then there was a rush at him, and dozens of people speaking at once, thanking him, praising him, and it made Lee want to hide again. He was content to tell other people’s stories; he had little interest in his own. 

So he sat that day, and the next, and the next, redirecting questions about himself towards the survivors. He collected their stories about the war, first hand accounts of quiet braveries and unknown losses, and he promised they wouldn’t be forgotten. He started a records collection of these stories, and his own observations, and stored it with Madam Pince in the Hogwarts library, where it would be safe. 

(It was fitting, two decades later, that his best friends’ daughter started dating the next Wizarding Historian). 

But Lee wasn’t a historian; his commentary was about the moment, the present, reporting. When it came time a couple months later, when he could actually think about the future and realize that he had one, he thought about joining the Daily Prophet. But he couldn’t do it; there was too much history with that paper. Luna offered a position at the  _Quibbler_ , but Lee couldn’t do that either. 

Instead he went back to what he’d done before wartime took over—he was a Quidditch Commentator. 

He couldn’t go back to Hogwarts, obviously, but people knew who he was, apparently, and he got a job commentating for the Holyhead Harpies. He could watch a Weasley play, and he could lose himself in the flow of the game’s action. People enjoyed hearing him speak (and he didn’t have McGonagall breathing down his neck so he could swear as much as he wanted), to the point that he was asked to record the games. 

Lee spend several years moving up the ranks of commentators, eventually becoming England’s commentator. He moved between games, juggling that and furthering his Ancient Rune studies and visiting with the growing Weasley clan. He healed with every time he called a goal instead of a death. 

But finally there were too many stories in his head, and instead of blurring together they just got louder, tearing him from sleep more than once with names of the dead and the living. Even Quidditch plays were swirling with the rest, creating a very uneasy and disturbing mixture. 

Then and only then did Lee sit down and write a book, writing down the stories so they would stop shouting. The words came easily; he simply wrote the way he spoke. He started with the first time he was commentator, and went on from there, writing chronologically. It felt strange to remember those old games, those old silly problems, but he had a good memory and actually wrote out near-complete transcripts of every game. His memories of Potterwatch were even clearer, and the book became so long Lee despaired of ever getting it published. 

He mentioned that to his nephew Freddie Lee. 

“Rubbish,” Freddie told him. “If people are scared of big books they’ll just skip parts.” 

So Lee submitted a nearly thousand page manuscript, and went to the game that night. He didn’t expect to hear for ages, maybe never. 

He certainly did not expect an owl to swoop down in the middle of a play, narrowly avoiding getting smashed by a Bludger. The owl didn’t seemed bothered by it at all, and held out its leg with a note from the publisher. 

She wanted to publish his book, and publish it whole. 

The next few months were a whirl of editing and checking facts and shedding tears over the more painful memories. George and Kingsley came to help (and both ended up doing interviews), and they talked together about some of the best nights…and some of the hardest. The voices weren’t in Lee’s head anymore, but he still had the names on his lips, and it never stopped making him cry. 

The book came out in time for Freddie’s seventeenth birthday, and it sold so quickly Lee was genuinely shocked. 

Then the letters started. 

Letters from survivors sharing their stories, letters from families of victims, saying that they’d never really known about how their family had died.  Letters from children who never knew their parents, letters from parents who’d lost their children. 

Now the stories were in Lee’s head again, but they were…complete, in a way. They had an end, even though some of them were so sad Lee almost wished he didn’t know them. 

But Lee was a witness, and he saw every story to its end. 

He would write another book years later, all about the family he’d been watching since he was eleven. But that story was still to come, there was still so much more to see. 

You cannot observe a phenomenon without affecting its actions—this is a truism of science. But the flip side is that the observer is affected by the phenomenon. So Lee Jordan, content to watch life, lived through the stories he told, and his own story came through every ‘character’ he ever saw. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that I struggled real hard about whether to make Lee Kin or Kith, and I finally decided on Kith because, after all, he is a Watcher. That doesn't mean that anyone in Kith is less important than Kin, or vice versa.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	4. Legacy (Dean Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns the truth about his father, and finds his way forward.

                The worst thing that the Death Eaters ever did to Dean was that they made him hate his father.

                Dean was the oldest of the three, and he remembered Daddy best. He remembered a dad who was away for work a lot, but he always had time for his children when he was home. He played plenty of games, showed them beautiful parts of the woods around their house, and never left without saying that he loved them. Dean could just remember a few times when his mother and father were together, but he remembered them being happy.

                That’s why it was such a shock when he left.

                Even the police thought he was probably missing. It wasn’t a big town, and everyone turned out to help look for Jacob Thomas, even the woman who made faces at the darkness of the Thomas’s skin. But nothing turned up, no evidence of foul play, no evidence of him leaving against his will…there was only the evidence that he walked out on three children and his wife.

                People stopped looking, and Dean stopped hoping. They eventually stopped talking about his father all together. Dean wanted to believe that his father was dead, or kidnapped. It was better than thinking that he’d left for no reason, on an ordinary day.

                When Dean learned the truth, he spent the next several months learning as much as possible about his father. He went through Auror records and talked to Kingsley Shacklebolt, who remembered his father. “Jacob helped train me,” the Minister of Magic explained. “I am so sorry that no one came to find you, Dean. You deserved to know a long time ago.”

                Jacob Thomas was top of his class, a Gryffindor who played as a Beater the same years as James Potter was Chaser. He loved to draw, and his cubicle at work had all of Dean, Lucy, and Ellie’s drawings. They’d been stored away for years, perfectly preserved, and Dean traced the childish lines and tried not to cry.

                Dean wasn’t cut out to be an Auror; his year on the run and in captivity taught him that much. But he could honour his father in a different way.

                Because there was a third part of Jacob Thomas’ life that no one knew about. You see, in between Auror missions and weekends with his family, Jacob saved people from abuse.

                There was no recourse for domestic abuse victims in the wizarding world, but Jacob hadn’t let that stop him. Dean found a journal recording at least twenty different families in crisis, where Jacob had sent people off to other cities, even off to other countries, with money and supplies and safety. The abusers were sometimes jailed, and sometimes Jacob just put ‘taken care of’. Dean checked a couple of the names, and found only old records.

                As it happened, Dean was already working at a Muggle women’s shelter, because he had a “stepfather” once, a rich man with an empty heart and cruel grasp.  It took six months of constant fear and pain for his mother for her to be able to save them properly. They stayed on the run for two months while the police searched for the man, and Dean remembered the shelters that became their homes, if only for a few nights. Giving back felt like a good way to deal with the aches in his bones, lingering from his months in the Malfoy mansion.

                To Dean’s horror, not much had changed since his father’s covert missions. There were a few laws in place now that forbade marital abuse, but there was no place for the victims to go. And the challenges of escaping an abuser that had magic too, that abused you through magic and potions…

                There was nothing, and Dean was determined to change that.

                He read his father’s book over and over, and talked to his colleagues at the Muggle shelter, and finally he was ready. Seamus supported him fully, and Parvati Patil wanted to work with him. “I can’t believe this doesn’t exist yet! We need to get this going right away.”

                Parvati looked after the little ones their seventh year, fighting duels and taking detentions for anyone she could shield. When Dean learned how to do tattoos, he drew flowers and birds and a roaring lioness over every scar.

                They chose a house just outside London, with a big lawn and trees in the backyard, with lots of bedrooms and a big kitchen. Terry Boot and Astoria Greengrass came to put in protective shields and redesign the building to make rooms for playing and learning, rooms for storage of belongings, and a healer’s room. Draco Malfoy came one day and put in secret compartments and doors, even a passageway out to the yard. “Just in case,” was all he said.

                Stan Shunpike, finally out of prison (after having done exactly nothing wrong), offered to be their transportation. “I can keep me mouth shut,” he promised, face still gaunt from Azkaban.

                So the Knight Bus was an option for smaller operations, because disguises would be enough to shut up the other passengers. Dean and Parvati sat down and devised a strategy, figuring out the best way to get far enough away from the pickup place so that there wouldn’t be a trail.

                Next they needed more people. Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew that this would take extra people, otherwise they might not be able to respond fast enough. The last thing he wanted to do was get somewhere too late.

                There were plenty of volunteers: Hestia offered to be a counselor; Professor Sprout, now retired, wanted to create activities and learning for the children; Fleur came by often to give whatever help they needed. Kingsley gave them some Aurors on call (extensively background-checked), and over the years more people showed up, joining the ranks wherever they could.

                The last thing they did was choose a name for their organization, and it had to be something that everyone would understand, everyone could remember, and something that would sound normal in casual conversation. Dean came up with the perfect name.

                For most of the wizarding world, the Shelter was just called…well, the Shelter. There was never any clear public press about its activities, which was the point. But there were whispers, and art, and letters underneath the lid of Lavender’s Pretty tins. Whispers of a way out for the abused and abandoned, a place where normalcy could be regained and wounds could be healed. A place you left when you were ready, that gave you a hand out of the darkness.

                A place called Jacob’s Ladder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So 99% of this is headcanon--the only part that isn't is that Dean's father was a wizard, and died fighting Voldemort without telling his wife that he was a wizard, so Dean is actually a half-blood, not Muggleborn.   
> Cheers,  
> Acme


	5. Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Viktor Krum)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor makes many hard choices in his life, but the toughest was the first. It's only fitting that he gets rewarded for his efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder--Rita Scamander is Freddie Weasley's future partner (well, one of them).

                Viktor Krum was in love with Hermione Granger, but he knew that she loved Ron Weasley. He knew it even before Hermione did.

                He knew he had two options: he could move on, or he could pine over her forever, denying himself any chance of happiness with someone else.

                The first was hard, and the second was easy, but Viktor didn’t want to make the easy choice. That wasn’t what good people did.

                So Viktor went back to Bulgaria and played Quidditch. He wrote to Hermione frequently, because he still enjoyed talking to her, and he kept in touch with Fleur. It hurt him that he couldn’t keep his promise to Cedric, the promise they made before the maze.

                “Promise we’ll keep in touch?” Cedric had asked. “It’d be nice to be friends after the competition is over.”

                Viktor would have kept that promise. Being a celebrity Quidditch player was much lonelier than people imagined, and making new friends was rare.

                Cedric was dead, though, and without his help Krum never reached out to Harry Potter. He had a reasonable amount of respect for the boy, but they didn’t know each other well enough.

                Viktor spent the next year playing Quidditch, writing letters, and getting into duels with people who claimed that Voldemort wasn’t back. Viktor saw the terror in Karkaroff’s eyes, saw the worry in Hermione’s writing. He’d seen Cedric’s dead body. It was real, and Harry Potter wasn’t lying.

                When the war started he wanted to rush to England and fight, killing everything that might hurt Hermione. So what if her parents were Muggles? There was nothing wrong with that—he had Muggle relatives on both sides. She was still beautiful, still amazing, and the idea that anyone would call her inferior, anyone would cause her harm…death seemed no small thing.

                With Karkaroff gone, Viktor thought Durmstrang might have shifted back into something calmer. They were all drawn towards the darker parts of magic, but that didn’t make them evil.

                But his Muggleborn cousin wrote pleading for help, and Viktor took a year off from playing professionally and went to teach Quidditch at Durmstrang. He kept his ear to the ground, and he knew that there was trouble brewing.

                The teachers who’d taught Viktor when he was younger were showing their true colours now. And the decent ones had no support, because Karkaroff was still Headmaster until he died. It wasn’t until after word came of his death that a party went out and dragged back a pregnant woman to be the Headmistress by virtue of the child in her womb. Viktor felt genuinely sorry for the woman, who was barely three years older than him, who had to pick up after her cowardly lover. Karkaroff had always liked them young.

                Irena Vaskoff was pregnant, twenty-five, and alone. Once the child was born, she would still be in charge, but only until they were of age. After that, she was useless.  

                And of course, there had been times when a child was born an orphan, its mother murdered before it had time to draw a breath. Already several of the Darker teachers were circling her, trying to be supportive, promising that they could give her child a father.

                Viktor wasn’t stupid. He knew that she was in terrible danger, because all it took was one wrong person in the delivery room, and Irena would die, her child snatched.

                Irena was trying so hard to hide her fear, and she was doing a decent job. But she knew what was coming, and the defences around her office became more secure by the day.

                One night Viktor was patrolling, and he saw that her light was on, and that one of her shields was down. He was going to fix it, but then doing that might seem like she wasn’t capable. Instead, he knocked on her door.

                Irena opened the door, tears running down her face, and a potion in her hand. Viktor recognized it; he’d made it for his cousin a few years ago.

                “Is that the choice you want to make?”

                “What is it to you?”

                “It’s your choice,” Viktor answered. “But I don’t want you to do this because you are afraid.”

                She let him in.

                Irena sat down, the potion still clutched to her. “I don’t want to bring this child into a life like this. As long as the Dark Lord is powerful, she will be at risk. Not only from inside this school, but the rest of the world.”

                Viktor bowed his head. “You could run. I can help you run to France. My friend Fleur’s family is there, and they would shield you.”

                “They’ll find me. And then your friend will suffer for my stupidity.”

                “I could take your child and run,” Krum said. “As long as she is alive, you would be safe.”                

                Irena shook her head.

                “I know it must be hard to imagine being without her—”

                “I don’t want to be a mother,” Irena interrupted.

                Viktor didn’t know what to say.

                “Not to this one, nor to any other. I never wanted that, but Igor wouldn’t—he wouldn’t _listen!_ He said I’d get used to it, he took all my ingredients away. And now he’s gone, and I have them now, but I’m too much of a coward to do this.” Irena slammed the bottle to the ground, so hard it shattered. The bright liquid oozed over the floor.

                “He was wrong to do that to you,” Viktor said at last. “You gave him your choice, and he took it from you. That is a crime that is punishable by death in my family.”

                “Really?”

                “That’s why my mother is dead. She—” Viktor closed his eyes. How could he say those hateful words, the words they covered with euphemisms. But Irena deserved the truth. “She abused and raped my father, and my aunt killed her for it. We lied and said it was the Cough.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “She was no kind of mother if she was willing to do that to an adult. What would she do to a child? Instead I had my father, and he’s all the parent I ever needed.”

                Irena buried her face in her hands. “I don’t want to stop this fetus from having life, but I cannot raise them. That isn’t fair. But I cannot leave Durmstrang in the hands of those monsters.”

                Viktor pressed his palms together. Irena was right; if the line was broken, there would be nothing to stop the teachers from participating in a mass duel for the position, the first such one in over a hundred years. There would be corpses come the morning, and the students would either conform to the new leader or die.

                “You will always be this child’s biological mother. But they don’t have to be here to keep you in your position.”

                “What are you suggesting?”

                “I will find a family to protect your baby. They will raise them, and while the child—”

                “She’s a girl,” Irena interrupted. “I may as well say that, if I know she is going to live.”

                Viktor nodded. “Then the couple will raise her, and until this horror show is over, her being alive will be enough to keep you in position and safe. They will not find your daughter, I swear to you.”

                Irena hesitated, but finally she nodded. “This is quite the risk, Viktor. For me?”

                “I want to help you,” Viktor answered. “I feel helpless most of the time. This is something I can do.”

                The next few months were an agony of keeping up appearances, keeping the teachers away from Irena, looking for a family to take in the baby when the time came. Viktor had standards; the child would be loved as well as being safe. That was always going to be important.

                He finally found Isaac and Wren Scamander. Fleur’s mother directed him there—they lived among a Veela settlement, studying their language and how it compared to other fantastic beast speak. They wanted a child but Isaac wasn’t able to sire one, and they happily agreed to take in Irena’s daughter.

                “She’ll be safe with us,” Wren promised, her silver-blonde hair showing her own Veela roots. “No one would dare come near here, and we will give her a wonderful home.”

                Krum flew back to Durmstrang, elated. It was only a month until Irena’s baby was due, and by then they would have a perfectly safe plan in place to take her there.

                Naturally, when he got back Irena was in labour.

                The six hours it took for Irena to deliver her daughter were the longest of Viktor’s life. His cousin stood guard at the door, but there was no way to get the mediwitch to Irena without alerting half of Durmstrang. Viktor held her hand and counted contractions, praying that woman and child would come through.

                But the end of the six hours was worth it,  because a tiny squalling baby was tied to Viktor’s chest, ready for the return flight. Irena was exhausted, but she put a hand on the baby’s head. “Name her Rita,” she said. Then she looked at the now-quiet child. “Good luck, Rita. I wish you all the best love in the world. I’m sorry I can’t give it to you.”

                Krum took off the next moment, flying as fast as he could without hurting the baby. To his relief, Rita slept the entire four hours back to the Scamanders, who woke up in some confusion, but mostly delight. When Viktor handed Isaac Rita, and watched him cuddle the baby close to his chest as he wept, weight lifted off his shoulders.

                Viktor removed the sling, which was modified with an Undetectable Enlargement charm.

                “There are supplies in here, and letters from Irena. One to you, and one to Rita. She wanted…she wanted to give her daughter that story.”

                “Of course,” Wren said immediately, taking the sling. “We’ll tell Rita the truth, and leave contact up to her and to Irena.”

                Viktor nodded. “I must return before anyone grows suspicious,” he said.

                “Viktor,” Isaac called. “Will you be Rita’s godfather?”

                Viktor was touched. “Of course I will,” he answered.

                Isaac handed Rita to him—his goddaughter, of all things—and Viktor kissed her head. “Fly high, Rita. I will see you again.”

                Viktor didn’t hear from the Scamanders for several months. The war intensified in Britain, and all letters stopped. That was alright though, because it was all Viktor could do to keep his head above water at Durmstrang. The tension rose to breaking point between the Voldemort supporting teachers and the rest, with the students trying their best to stay out of the way.                                                                       And finally, right before Durmstrang was set alight by one side or another, the war ended. Viktor got a letter from Hermione—the first one in a year—telling him all about it. It was tearstained, and Viktor’s tears made it worse, but the most important part was that his friends were safe, and Voldemort was dead. The Voldemort supporters left Durmstrang in a hurry, and Irena declared it to be a holiday. She baked dozens of cakes and all the students sat together in the Hall, happy and safe for the first time.                 Viktor only stayed for one piece of cake, because he had somewhere to be. He got on his broom, and flew to the Scamanders’ home.                                                                                                                                                                 Rita was five months old now, and she could even sit up. Viktor picked her up, searching her face for her father and mother. She had her mother’s strong chin and her father’s dark hair, but other than that she seemed like a completely different person. Her big smile was definitely hers alone.

                Viktor left Durmstrang that summer. Irena had things well in hand, and there was no further danger to Rita. He spent a month in Britain and stayed with Bill and Fleur, going up to Hogsmeade one weekend to visit with Hermione. Perhaps the war had changed things, or maybe Viktor had finally succeeded in moving on, but he could look at her the way he looked at Irena—a dear friend, and nothing else.

                When the visit was over, Viktor returned to Bulgaria. He rejoined the Quidditch team, but instead of the team dorms he bought a small cottage near to the Sacamanders so he could see Rita every day. They became fast friends, and it wasn’t unusual to see Durmstrang’s Tri-Wizard Champion and national Quidditch player obediently being a two year old’s ‘horsie’.

                Viktor kept in touch with everyone in Britain—Harry and (to his great shock) Ron became new penpals, and so did Arthur Weasley—and his days were happier now. He had friends (Isaac and Wren were brilliant, and he made friends with several Veela, including one of Fleur’s distant cousins), he had his goddaughter, and he had Irena.

                There were times when all of those good parts of his life came together. Irena began to visit Rita when she was three years old, taking her out to get ice cream or just talking to her. At first that made Wren and Isaac nervous, but Irena reassured them. “She’s your daughter, not mine,” she promised. “But I would like to be in her life, just not as a mother.”

                She kept her word when Rita came to Durmstrang, where she acknowledged that Rita was her biological child. “Rita is the heir to Durmstrang, if she wishes it. But for now, she needs to be a good student and keep up with her homework.”

                And Rita, who helped Irena write that speech, just laughed.

                Viktor retired from Quidditch the year Rita was thirteen, and when he came to visit the Scamanders for New Years, Irena was there, and she brought a new man with her.

                Derek Kovachev had a grown-up son named Milan, and he had a booming laugh that made everyone else want to join in. Irena held his hand the entire night, and for the first time in thirteen years Viktor actually felt a pang of longing. There’d been a few women along the way, and a brief relationship with Lee Jordan, but they always ended in friendships, in more letters and less intimacy. Viktor had grown to accept that.

                But now Irena was seriously courting Derek, and Viktor wondered if it was maybe time to try once more.

                But Rita took up a lot of his time, because she was dealing with being thirteen, and she was old enough to understand her father’s legacy, and deciding whether that was something she wanted to accept at all, and Wren caught spattergroit and was laid up for three months, and Isaac’s research was unfortunately taking him away from home to more remote Veela settlements…so when Rita needed to talk to someone, she always wrote Viktor. He had to be ready to answer letters at all times.

                As his years visiting the Scamanders had given him some immunity to the Veela’s charms, Viktor could work with them. He became the front man for a bookstore that dealt with books for magical peoples and books written by magical peoples. It was surprisingly popular with the locals, who were curious about the worlds of people they’d been raised to call fantastic ‘beasts’ (not something the Veela enjoyed, and they credited Newt Scamander because they weren’t in his book).  Still, the majority of their business was done through the post office (after all, Mer couldn’t get to the middle of Bulgaria easily).

                So Viktor’s primary job was going to the post office. He went to send off orders and pick up new ones (owls didn’t much like Veelas, so they wouldn’t deliver directly to the store). It meant two trips a day so they could fulfill orders as quickly as possible, and Viktor eventually got a box there so that letters from his friends and goddaughter could be picked up while he was walking back and forth.

                Because of his frequent visits he got to know the post office quite well. Stefan and Andrei Florakis were in charge, and their daughter Marta, a year younger than Viktor, looked after the owls. Whenever Viktor came in she was wearing a dress covered in feathers (but never bird shit, somehow), and chatting quite seriously with the owls as she tied packages onto their legs.

                At first Viktor enjoyed talking with Stefan and Andrei more. Stefan came from Greece, and he had dozens of stories about the magical settlements there. Andrei was quieter than his partner, but he had an extensive memory of the packages he’d seen in his time. “You’d be surprised how many people come in here with their partner’s belongings and get them boxed up and sent to Timbuktu,” he chuckled. “Really, I suppose you’d be surprised by how often people tell you what they’re sending and where and why. I really only need to know the second, but I appreciate the stories.”

                Marta would listen to the stories too, but she rolled her eyes at some of the more outrageous ones. “I don’t think my father understands that people lie,” she confided in Viktor one day. “I don’t think some of those stories are true.”

                “Maybe not,” Viktor replied. “But they are good stories, and that holds some power.”

                “Tell me a story then, Viktor.” Marta’s eyes danced. “And embellish if you need to.”

                Obviously Viktor couldn’t spend all of his time at the post office; he had work to do. But in the first few months of his new job he ended up spending several evenings there. Stefan cooked beautifully, and soon Viktor joined the family for dinner each Saturday night. They ate a feast, and then they would gather around a table with a magical map. They took turns telling stories, pointing at the places they began, continued, and ended.

                (Twenty years later, the table would be replaced with a far more detailed one, crafted by Al and Scorpius).

                Andrei’s stories were centered around stories of delivery, both of packages and people. “I started out as a ship captain,” he told them. “But I got tired of the sea when I met Stefan on my hundredth voyage, and we came back here together.”

                Stefan had travelled extensively in search of good food, and he could remember details of recipes he’d tasted decades before. He pointed out the best restaurants, and the worst, in a different town or village or city each Saturday.

                Marta, like her fathers, had many stories of travel. “I was a dancer,” she explained. “We performed across the continents.” Her stories were full of colour and light, dazzling heights and tense moments. Viktor often let his food go cold listening.

                He was nervous the first few times he shared his own stories—all he’d done was play Quidditch, nothing so wonderful as the Florakis. But it grew easier to talk, and soon he could tell stories as well as they could. He told stories about travels, about the thrill of the game and the roar of the crowd, about quiet days in the bookshop and all of their customers, and about Rita. He could talk for hours about his god-daughter, always could.

                Viktor’s favourite story came two years later, when Derek proposed to Irena, and she accepted. They were married at Durmstrang, and in the ceremony Irena named Derek Headmaster, as was custom when the Head of the school married. But what Irena did next wasn’t traditional at all.

                She summoned Rita forward, who at fifteen was taller than both of her mothers, and asked if she was willing to give up her position as Heir to Durmstrang. To shocked murmurs, Rita assented, and Irena named Milan as her successor, as the ‘son of the Headmaster’.

                It was cunning, it was clever, and it was exactly what they all wanted. Irena didn’t want to burden her biological daughter with the responsibility of her blood, and Rita wanted to leave Durmstrang and travel to Paris. She wanted to work with Gabrielle Delacour in fashion one day, but that wasn’t something she could do without breaking the line.

                Milan, on the other hand, wanted very much to be a teacher. He was already married, and had infant twins, with plans to have more children (he and his wife ended up with eight, four sets of twins in all). He was willing to take on Durmstrang, and was grateful to accept the title from Rita.

                But that wasn’t the only reason that it was Viktor’s favourite story. His goddaughter’s happiness was wonderful, his friend’s relief was great, and he was happy to see his old school get new blood.

                No, that would always be his favourite story because it was the first night Marta’s food grew cold as she listened, the first time Viktor truly saw the way she looked at him. It was the first time he realized that she might love him, and it was the first time that he realized that he loved her back.

                And he told that story many more times in the years to come, including at their wedding (held at the post office, of course—Stefan and Andrei wouldn’t hear of anything else). He told it to many people, all their friends and family; he wrote it down, he told it aloud, and he even learned to sign it from Wren Scamander.

                He even whispered it one night to his infant son Cedric, cradling him as Marta rested from her labour. The baby was so small in his arms, so much smaller than Rita, but his eyes were so intense—he was such a little person.

                Which is why, for the first time, Viktor ended the story with a truth he hadn’t dared to speak.

                “And in that hall, my son, when I heard that, I felt afraid for a moment. Irena didn’t need me anymore, and neither did Rita—she was acknowledged and she was safe. I worried that with my usefulness over, my story may have ended.”

                Viktor leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead. “I don’t mean death, Cedric, because death isn’t the end of a story. But I wasn’t going to be needed anymore, and I was set in where I was. I am so happy to be wrong, dear child. I got to have so many more stories, and I look forward to the story I will have with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I know that this was meant to be up yesterday, but this just kept...going?  
> Also everything about Durmstrang is made up. Everything. But I love it anyways :)   
> Cheers,  
> Acme

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to keep Lavender alive, but since she hasn't appeared at all in Fading Scars yet (I couldn't make up my mind), I had to give her a role farther away.  
> Also I am so sorry about being late with this! I genuinely forgot until way too late last night.  
> Cheers,  
> Acme


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